Should you stumble across my post...

I tell people I'm over you-the people who knew you existed to begin with-only one or two, who I know can keep a confidence, even know your name. I only confided in a few friends, and they had no idea who you were, how famous, how wealthy-they didn't give a hoot. Neither did I, you know. Sweetheart, I am so over you-why would I want to leave myself open to someone who had the capacity to cause me such pain? Other men show interest, and I struggle with a cynicism which you helped to instill in me. But sometimes, on nights like these, I miss you in ways that still sting. The way you'd pop up on my computer screen as I was putting the children to bed, and I'd hurry a little, eager to catch up on the news of the day. The way you'd try to shock me with tales of your scandalous past. The way you could laugh at yourself-and make light of the quirks of the suburban matrons with their implants and spa visits and of the executives with their corporate jets and call girls. I miss the daily gossip about what we did that day and the endearingly practical conversation about our children's behavior. Your children older, you would say to me "Just you wait, my dear." There is a lot I don't miss, P. I never could have joined you in your bacchanals, and I am increasingly sure that you would have wanted me to. The people who know and love me are glad you are gone-but there are times, fewer as the days turn to weeks, to be sure, when I long to turn on my computer and start a conversation that would go on until the late hours of the night and end with a-"goodbye, sweetheart. Look for me...tomorrow."